


you flooded through my veins

by amiphobic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiphobic/pseuds/amiphobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't science; it's anarchy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you flooded through my veins

**Author's Note:**

> Minor spoilers and errors.
> 
> I'm a tiny bit late to the party. But better late than never, right? Cheers.

Speech repetition is a common occurrence and ability. While you acknowledge that it’s vital to the process of learning languages, it’s still rather…simple. In fact, it’s so simple, it almost bores you. Yes, there are the mirror neurons and cortical processing streams, but that all seems rather basic, rather undergraduate grunt work, to an S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. (For goodness’ sake, you nearly plummeted to your death not too long ago, who cares about speech patterns?)

But when you casually address Agent Coulson as, “AC,” you realise maybe there’s more to it.

(And no, it has nothing to do with Skye’s slight smile, as if nothing pleases her more than being a trend-setter.)

“Oh, Sir, I didn’t mean to- I do apologize,” you stutter.

He laughs. Sort of. It’s more of a chortle really. It’s as if he understands something you don’t – the possibility of which makes you somewhat uncomfortable.

* * *

 

“Bang,” you exclaim as Skye runs through target practice. It really is more of a ‘pik’ sound, but she seems rather attached to ‘bang’.

She turns to give you the same amused look – one eyebrow slightly raised, the corner of her mouth upturned. Focusing her attention back to the task at hand, she levels her handgun carefully.

 _Pik, pik, pik_.

All three of her shots hit the outer ring of the target.

You’re not close to being a marksman or combat expert, but you’re fairly sure that her performance has regressed.

(You certainly don’t hope that she was distracted by your presence.)

* * *

 

“I’ve programmed the mainframe to shut down in case-“

“Of security breaches, I know,” you say, tapping your fingers erratically against the coffee table.

Skye shoots you a silencing look. “Now it’s very simple, these switches control the-“

“Access points and flippy things,” you say.

“Thanks, Simmons,” she says sarcastically.

“I know, I know. Bad habit, sorry.” New theory: perhaps by finishing her sentences, you’re unconsciously exercising your imitation of her.

She shuts the lid of her laptop and asks, “What are you nervous about?”

“Nervous?” Your voice is half an octave too high. Too bad you can’t imitate her collected demeanor at the moment. “Nothing, what- why would you think that?”

“Because the last time you finished all my sentences was when we were hacking into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s- your hair is lovely,” you say, standing. “Do you use the two in one shampoo conditioner supplied by HQ?” You stretch a wide and hopefully innocent smile.

Her expression doesn’t change. “I just wanna know why you’re being so sketch. I’m just teaching you some basic encryption stuff.”                                                                                                                              

Your heart rate has sped up and you’re perspiring. What are the telltale signs of lying again? Right, behavioral pauses and delays, disconnect between the verbal and nonverbal, covering of the mouth or shifting of the eyes- oh no! You stare straight ahead into space. Your brain is still whirring when Skye places her hand on top of yours.

It all stops.

“Hey,” she says, and your eyes lock with hers, “don’t worry about it.” She looks nonplussed and still a tiny bit entertained.

“Oh,” you exhale gratefully.

“Now as I was saying…”

(You definitely do not rub your thumb over where her hand made contact with yours, hoping to find evidence of such an event.)

* * *

 

“Definitely not,” Fitz says insistently. “The minute pulsations clearly indicate an active core.”

“But the pulsations could be delayed,” you say. “The core is devoid of any active energy and the pulsations are growing fainter.”

“No!” Fitz lunges for the tube containing the core before you can touch it. “It’s highly unstable.”

“It’s not even active, Fitz!”

“Just give me five minutes,” he says, already tinkering with a 3D model on his screen.

You huff and stomp out of the lab. Upon reaching the upstairs bar, you find Skye sat there. She is undeniably gorgeous. You cannot help but wonder if she thinks the same about you.

“Where’s the Fitz of your Fitzsimmons?”

“We’re not the same person!" Skye holds her hands up defensively. "Sorry."

She still looks a bit amused. “It's just, you guys have the whole old married couple thing going on. It’s cute.”

You blush. But the logical part of you deduces that if she finds the idea of you and Fitz together a positive one, then her desire to be with you in that way is either contradictory, non-existent, or very open-minded.

(And you absolutely do not play the scene over and over in your head, reimagining that she finds just you cute.)

“Want a drink?” She raises her glass of what looks to be vodka and Coca-Cola towards you.

You take a bottle of water from under the sink. “Got it,” you say.

Skye laughs.

* * *

 

“Yes? Wow. Okay.” You’re supposedly a bio-chem genius with two PHD’s and a third if you wanted it and the best you can do is three monosyllabic sentences.

Agent May raises an impeccable eyebrow. She’s dressed down to the nines for an undercover operation; dark blue dress, black heels, silver earrings. In a matching tuxedo is Agent Ward who adjusts his bowtie in front of the mirror.

“You look beautiful,” you say more enthusiastically.

“Ready?” Agent Ward asks, his expression even as always. He offers her his arm and Agent May takes it.

“Man,” Skye says, leaning against you. “I have a total girl crush on Agent May in that dress.”

She’s showing interest in another woman, so the reasonable thing to do in this situation is to affirm your shared interest. You say, “Oh, me too.” Skye looks at you, surprised. “ _Total_ girl crush.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. That is, she doesn’t smile very convincingly this time. “Well, we better get back to the lab.”

(You do not think about telling her tha-…well, you don’t think about it.)

* * *

 

She keeps touching him. A hand on his arm, skimming fingers across his back as she passes by, shoulder against his. She gives him a killer smile, one she’s never given you, and her eyes dance with something not entirely scientific. It doesn’t take a genius to figure this out.

You have Fitz, Agents May and Coulson have each other, so it’s down to Skye and Agent Ward. Simple mathematics really.

(You don’t want to think about it.)

* * *

 

“Agent Ward is quite ‘dreamy’ isn’t he?” You ask.

Fitz fumbles with his wires for a moment. He considers the question before answering, “Well, I suppose from certain angles you could say he was handsome. And well, he’s tall. And he’s, um, good at his job. Strong. Brooding, if you’re into that. Wh- Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” you say. “He’s rather dashing, isn’t he?”

“Are you,” he pauses momentarily, “interested in Ward?”

“No. No!”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just,” you say as you fidget with your pen, “simple maths, Leo.”

Realization dawns on him and you’re thankful that yet again the two of you are on the same wavelength.

“Wait, were you trying to set me up with Ward?” His face flushes deep red.

You snicker.

“Yeah well,” he turns away to hide his expression, “you should talk to Skye.”

(You do not consider his suggestion. That would be foolish – hoping for a result that the evidence doesn’t support.)

* * *

 

“I love you, too,” Skye says over the phone and then pockets her device.

While you’re determinedly focusing elsewhere, Fitz clears his throat. You don’t react. He asks, “Was that Miles?”

“No.” Skye sounds completely repulsed at the idea. “It was an ex-Rising Tide member. She got me through a few scrapes.”

“Oh.”

“I’m so over Miles,” she says. Your back is still turned, but you want to know what expression she has on. “I’ve moved on.” Sadness? Satisfication? Elation? Acceptance? Anger?

Agent Ward descends the spiral staircase and calls for her, “Coulson wants to brief us on our next mission.”

“Peace,” she says and leaves.

Fitz grabs your arm. “You have to go for it!”

“She meant Agent Ward,” you hiss, setting down the test tubes.

“Then why hasn’t she made a move on him?”

You shake your head, “She hasn’t made a move on me either.”

“Well you didn’t see her face when she said she had moved on. She was looking at you.”

“No, she was not.”

“Your back was turned, how would you know?”

You purse your lips.

(You certainly don’t believe Fitz.)

* * *

 

The little device flies across the lab, spelling out _Happy Birthday, Leo!_ in gray curling smoke.

“That’s rad!” You cringe at yourself.

Skye still finds you humorous or your appropriation of her vocabulary at least. She shrugs, “Thought I could do something nice for Fitz.”

“He’ll really appreciate it,” you assure her.

She sighs and leans against the lab counter. She uses her fingers to massage her temples.

“Is everything alright?”

Nodding, she replies, “Just a bit stressed.”

You step forward into her space and press your lips gently against hers. You clench your fingers.

She breaks the kiss in surprise and asks, “Not complaining, but what was that for?”

“Well sexual activity releases endogenous morphine which can cause analgesia,” you babble, trying to cover up your tracks.

“Endo what?”

“They’re endogenous opioid peptides that function as neurotransmitt-“

Skye looks at you with amusement and _heat_. “So, you kissed me for the sake of science?”

You open your mouth, ready to admit it all. Then, you freeze and say, “I think I hear A- Agent Coulson calling.” You don’t look back as you flee.

(Maybe you’re not ready after all.)

* * *

 

There’s a knock on the door to your bunk. You peek out of the peephole.

 _Skye_.

You could feign absence, but while the plane is large it’s not large enough to have many hiding spaces. Dialing on the pad next to your bed, the door slides open.

She steps into your room and the entire space seems that much smaller. The height difference between the two of you is just significant enough for you to have to tilt your head up.

“Hey,” she says as the door slides closed behind her.

“Good evening,” you say. It takes all the control you have to keep your voice from trembling.

Her hand cups your cheek. She looks at you steadily, brown eyes soft, and asks, “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

“Technically the ceiling of the plane, but-“

“I like you,” Skye says. You can’t breathe. It must be psychological. Or maybe you’ve caught another alien virus. She continues, “I like talking to you. I like hanging out with you.”

You wonder if she knows CPR.

“I like kissing you,” she admits almost shyly. You’re feeling light-headed. Is that normal? Please, anything but an alien virus. “I mean the thousand year old Asgardian wasn’t wrong. Jemma?”

You push forward, pinning her against the door, and kiss her. A shiver runs down your back and her arms coil around your waist, securing you. Attraction is all about dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, and nerve growth factor, but this doesn’t feel like science. Science is reasonable and easy to understand, with patterns and rules and trends. This isn’t science; this is anarchy – flying apart and barely holding on.

( _No, it’s magic_ , she’d say.)

* * *

 

You’re in the holo-terminal room with her hand halfway up your shirt when the door opens.

“Oh shit,” Skye says, straightening your shirt as you fix her plaid button up.

“Am I interrupting?” Agent Coulson asks, keenly (perhaps too keenly) aware on what he’s walked in on.

“Sexual activity can lead to analgesia,” she attempts. You bite your lip to keep from smiling.

“Right,” he says, and leaves, rubbing his eyes.

You burst out into laughter the moment the door whooshes shut.

Her fingers play with the hem of your shirt. She looks at you playfully and says, “I thought it was a pretty good excuse.”

“You borrowed my phrase,” you mumble.

She raises an eyebrow. “Turnabout is fair play.”

You definitely do not break out into a huge grin.

(So it’s not another adventure concerning alien viruses. But you’ve been infected by something far better.)


End file.
